A short Christmas poem

Merry Christmas!!! :)

One Nicaraguan sunset

My Spanish teacher had me memorize a poem by the Nicaraguan poet Ruben Dario-

Qué alegre y fresca la mañanita!       A morning so happy and fresh!
Me agarra el aire por la nariz:           I take in a deep breath
los perros ladran, un chico grita        Dogs bark, a boy yells
y una muchacha gorda y bonita,        And a pretty, plump girl,
junto a una piedra, muele maíz.         Grinds corn with a stone.

It's been 100 years since he wrote that poem and while there are no more plump girls grinding corn in the mornings (at least that I saw), there are still plenty of dogs barking.

Kharkiv's Shevchenko Park

Here's Taras Shevchenko, the Ukrainian hero who has cast a lingering shadow through history. Don't tear me apart for this, but in my mind he's like the Abraham Lincoln of Ukraine.

Both Lincoln and Shevchenko lived during the same times- their births and deaths were just a few years apart. They have completely different stories, of course- one was a poet whose career was ended by a tsar, the other a politician who saw his country through a civil war- but they're memorialized in imposing statues* as national patriots everywhere throughout their respective countries. Plus, nowadays Abe's got the $5 bill and Taras has the 100 uah bill (now worth about $5 USD). When I say Shevchenko is Ukraine's Lincoln, I mean that he's remembered with that same feeling, that the history books label them both as men who stood up for their nations.

*(Although Lincoln often gets the heartbroken look and Shevchenko gets the badass glare.)

But enough about history- you can get more of that here- this post is competition for last December's sad poetry night. Here's the contender for sad poetry champion: a Taras Shevchenko poem...

Чого мені тяжко, чого мені нудно

Why do I feel so heavy? Why so weary?

Sad Russian Poetry Night

No one can be as gloomy as a Russian poet. Go on, I dare you, try to beat this...

 Ночь, улица, фонарь, аптека (Блок)

 Night, street, street-lamp, drugstore (Alexander Blok)

Ночь, улица, фонарь, аптека,

Бессмысленный и тусклый свет.

The night. The street. Street-lamp. Drugstore.

A meaningless dull light about.

Живи ещё хоть четверть века -

Всё будет так. Исхода нет.

You may live twenty-five years more;

All will still be there. No way out.

Умрёшь — начнёшь опять сначала,

И повторится всё, как встарь:

You die. You start again and all

Will be repeated as before:

Ночь, ледяная рябь канала,

Аптека, улица, фонарь.

The cold rippling of a canal.

The night. The street. Street-lamp. Drugstore.

What do you think?

I encountered this poem years ago and it's dragged itself around in my head ever since. All the Russian poems I treasure are similarly mournful: последний тост (Last Toast) by the long-suffering Anna Akhmatova, и скучно и грустно (Weary and Sad) from Mikhail Lermontov, the allegedly-written-in-blood До свиданья, друг мой, до свиданья (Goodbye, My Friend, Goodbye), composed a day before Sergiy Yesenin's death. 

Last year my Russian teacher insisted I memorize a poem for one of our lessons. I memorized Yesenin's poem, since it was mostly intact in my brain anyways. For someone who tends to be rather somber herself, she wasn't amused. Next week, she ordered, you're to memorize another Yesenin poem- Собаке Качалова (To Kachalov's Dog). I only got through the second stanza. To Kachalov's Dog is about a friendly and loyal dog, so there must be equally upbeat creations out there... but they just don't have that same je ne sais quoi about them.

Nighttime in Kharkov (a plumbing poem)

Twas nighttime in Kharkov, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Denis was napping, all snug in his bed,
While visions of orange juice danced in his head.
After 8 hours of cold-you do the math,
I had just settled in for a lovely warm bath.

When there in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bath to see what was the matter.
Away to the sink I flew like a flash,

And a geyser of water erupted with a crash.

Although the city was covered in new-fallen snow
scalding hot water was beginning to flow

over the counter and onto the floor

the ocean of water continued to pour.

The river of time...

Река времен в своем стремленьи
Уносит все дела людей
И топит в пропасти забвенья
Народы, царства и царей.
А если что и остается
Через звуки лиры и трубы,
То вечности жерлом пожрется
И общей не уйдет судьбы.
- Гаврила Романович Державин (1743 - 1816)


The river of time in its currents bears away all the affairs of men, and drowns nations, kingdoms, and kings in the abyss of oblivion. And if, through the sounds of the lyre and the trumpet, anything shall remain, it shall be devoured in the jaws of eternity and shall not escape the common fate.
- Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin (1743 - 1816)


I can't get much of a feel for this poem in the original Russian, but the English translation is beautiful!

The Men Who Don't Fit In - Robert Service

How true...

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
 A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
 And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
 And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
 And they don't know how to rest.
 
If they just went straight they might go far;
 They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
 And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
 What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
 Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
 With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
 Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
 Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
 In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
 He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
 And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha!  He is one of the Legion Lost;
 He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
 He's a man who won't fit in.